Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

by Stephanie Queen

  Standing a few layers of media away, the owner of the voice is easy to spot. She holds a microphone high, wearing a floral sundress and a picture hat with sunglasses, dressed more for a garden party than football media day. She has a camera with her.

  Fuck. She’s legit. Big time legit. According to the logo on the camera and on the cameraman’s shirt, the woman appears to be working for New England Sports Headlines. Only the leading sports network in the area. Double fuck. I know she’s trouble as I watch her push her way past Foley and a couple of other people, jostling them aside, miraculously managing the turf while wearing heels without missing a step, not even a stumble.

  Elbowing Sean Patrick, the Militia’s field goal kicker who’s standing with me, I lift my chin in her direction and ask, “You know this reporter chick with the smart mouth trying to edge out Foley?”

  He turns to her and lets out a low whistle—a whisper of a whistle like only he knows how to do.

  “I sure as hell do not know her, but I think I want to change that status pronto.” The signature wolfish grin appears on my friend’s face and I half want to roll my eyes. The other half of me wants to join right in.

  “Fuck, man, she’s a reporter,” I remind him. “As in the enemy. “You can’t—”

  “Oh yes I can. When they look like her,” he says under his breath as she excuses her way past Foley, the last remaining reporter between her and me. Most of the media is busy trying to get quotes and pithy one-liners from our QB, Gabriel Wyatt, but there are plenty of media types to go around since we’re the defending Super Bowl champs. I figure she’s not joining the crowd around our QB because she’s new. Possibly because she’s clueless. But as she removes her sunglasses and I get a look at those brilliant deep blue eyes—almost violet and definitely intense—I stop thinking about . . . whatever the hell I’d been thinking about.

  Before I’m prepared, not that I could be for such an assault on my hormones and my nerves at the same time, she’s in my face with her microphone, so close I can see the gold flecks in those deep purple irises, feel her intensity. Shit, I feel the unmistakable sparks flying between us made of resentment and excitement, the kind that gets to my dick before it gets to my head.

  Get it together, man. She’s a reporter, a snake in the grass armed with the worst poison of all. Sex appeal.

  “Well, Mr. Fontanna? Is there or is there not a limit to the effort you bring to your team?”

  Gritting my teeth to maintain my famous smile, the one that women usually drool over—though I don’t see her drooling—I clear my throat and go into my snake charmer act.

  “I do everything to the absolute limit, Ms.? I don’t think I know you. You’re new to NESH?”

  She’s damn near baring her teeth at me even as I sense our electricity, a nasty opposites-attract kind of joke. She bristles, but keeps her smile and ignores my question. A pro. Only amateurs answer questions posed by the interviewee.

  “If you’re new to town,” Sean interrupts us and I should be grateful, but I’m not, “I’ll be happy to show you around.”

  Flicking her eyes to him, she smiles, not exactly sweetly, but without the tension she’s been aiming at me. She doesn’t bother replying to him and I admire her focus as my cock twitches.

  “Let me put it this way, Mr. Fontanna, would you risk your life to play football?”

  “We all risk our lives getting out of bed every day, driving cars, flying in planes. Life is a risk, Ms. No Name Reporter.” Bingo. I strike her down. There’s a ripple of response in the small group around us. I know it’s a clean hit when Foley chuckles, maneuvers himself back into place, effectively blocking her out. She’s lost her one advantage. Surprise. Though being drop-dead gorgeous could be considered an advantage. Okay, I admit that her looks are in fact a clear advantage. But my dick is calm now as I go back to talking with Foley about the competition in the division as if we’re having a beer in a bar on a Sunday, but knowing the whole time who he is and not saying a damn thing that isn’t vanilla and uncontroversial. No one from the PR office had to teach me twice how to talk to the media. That was tutoring I was grateful for and learned well.

  So what if half my attention is still riveted on the new chick from NESH? I never did get her name and when she moves on, catching Sean’s attention and taking him aside, I sigh. With relief. Or everything in me is relieved except my cock. My cock, I will not lie, is disappointed. It’s a very stupid undiscriminating organ, in all men, but I have control. Complete control.

  Monitoring Sean Patrick out of the corner of my eye, I’m not so sure about his control. I watch out for him for his own good. That’s what friends and teammates do. It doesn’t matter that the cock in me protests when she smiles a genuine smile at him, lighting her face to head-snapping proportions. She doesn’t break my control. How can she? The one and only thing I now about her is that she’s a reporter. And that’s all the information I need to know that I want nothing to do with her.

  She is the enemy.

  Chapter 2

  Chloe

  “So what can you tell me about Tate Fontanna?” I say. I’m not usually so blunt about my ulterior motives for talking to a subject, but Sean Patrick seems affable and interested and besides, I’m desperate. I need a story, and not the run-of-the-mill canned quotes of optimism everyone seems to be spewing as if they’ll never lose another game again.

  He laughs. Okay, I deserve that. Time to get real.

  “I hear he has a back problem he’s not telling anyone about.”

  “If he’s not telling, then what makes you think you know about it?”

  “I see. You’re protecting him too.” I don’t tell him I overheard the team’s trainer in a bar. And I especially wouldn’t want him to know that it was no happy coincidence I was there. A reporter has to be resourceful. That’s what my daddy always told me. Especially a girl reporter and double-damn especially if she’s a girl sports reporter.

  “Call it women’s intuition.”

  “How about if I let you buy me a beer, get me drunk, and pump me for information later?”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “Okay, you’re on.” Because I have no alternatives at the moment. He tells me the name of a bar.

  “Seven p.m.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in training?”

  “I am. But I’m a kicker. We train differently than the rest of the guys.” He lifts his brows up and down comically. He’s cute, but I don’t feel it. Not that I’m looking, and not for a pro athlete, heaven forbid. I know from long skillful observation that professional athletes make the worst boyfriends and shudder to think what the hell kind of spouses they might make.

  I’m happily single and on my way up the sports broadcasting career ladder with things to prove and a family legend to carry on, so I have more important things to do than find a man to romance, better things to get off on. As far as I’m concerned, romance is highly overrated.

  And romance with a pro football player would be the shittiest of the fucking shit. I mentally scold myself for thinking swear words since I’m supposed to try and clean up my language. But it’s hard since I was brought up by my dad and lived in news rooms and locker rooms all my life. If he hadn’t sent me away to Georgia State and insisted I join my mother’s old sorority, I’d still be wearing stained T-shirts and baggy pants and probably be smoking cigars on the regular right now. As it is, I only smoke them occasionally.

  “See you then, big boy,” I say to Sean and move on to talk to the backup quarterback, a seasoned pro who’s not going to give away any secrets, but I have to try.

  “Max Devon, I hear you’re looking to get into coaching after this season?” I see the flicker of surprise before he gives me the game face and though it’s not enough to go with for a spot, I can get away with some tweets about it. Checking over my shoulder, I make sure my cameraman caught the reaction and he nods.

  “I’m not looking at anything but preparing for the season right now.” Then he shows a wis
e, lopsided smile and stretches out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I hear you’re up from Georgia. Chloe Smith, isn’t it?”

  It’s impossible for me to hide my surprise, but I smile for real at this guy, and with great respect.

  “Yes. You do your homework. And I thought it was only us reporters who did that. Impressive,” I say, trying to figure how he could have known since half the people at the station don’t know me yet. My cameraman, Duff Maguire, raises a brow at me and shakes his head, denying it came from him. I like Maguire after only two days on the job because he doesn’t say much, lets me do my job as I see fit and run the show. You can’t buy that kind of trust. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. But I get the sense that he knows what he’s doing and he’s been testing me and likes what he sees. Plus, I made sure he knew who my father is. Was.

  Legendary in the sports reporting world. Now gone. Damn. Fucking damn. Every time I think about him I want to cry, but now is not the time. Lifting my chin, I move on. Go for the bold when in doubt—a page from my father’s bible of advice. I don’t know if he meant it for reporting or life, but I use it for both.

  “Who told you who I am?”

  “I know a couple of your sorority sisters,” He says without trouble. I should have known. He adds, “But I would have known you anyway. I’ve been around the league a while and I remember your dad. You look a lot like him. I think I might have met you once or twice when we were both much younger.”

  “Oh my God—that’s right. You played for Chicago and my dad took me to a game or two. I should have remembered that. My bad.” My smile is genuine now and Duff lowers his camera since I’m off point. My respect for him shoots up and I introduce him to Max as if Max is an old friend. But anyone with connections to my dad automatically has gravitas with me. I miss him so much and have a strong urge to trade stories right now but I know that’s all wrong. Unprofessional. Plus, it’ll make me start crying and I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime.

  Still, the hole gapes that he left in my heart and Max must sense this because he pats me on the back and says, “You must miss him terribly. He was one of those larger than life personalities with shoes impossibly big to fill—especially for his cherished daughter.”

  And now I want to hug this man like he is my uncle or long-lost brother. A tear escapes. Fuck. I turn aside, nodding. Maguire covers for me, blocking me from the view of most everyone, which is important since most everyone on the media side of the line has cameras and the players all have phones with cameras and the last thing I need is any evidence of me with any weakness whatsoever. Another line of advice from my father. Never show weakness, never let them see your soft side. Reserve it well for the few and the lucky, like I do for you.

  Remembering his words, hearing them in my head, almost makes my knees buckle with sorrow and emptiness. Until I hear that voice come up behind me, forcing me to stiffen my spine. A certain cure for showing softness like nothing else. No way could I allow vulnerability in the company of that horrible smartass. That preposterous hunk Tate Fontanna.

  “Max.” he nods, glances my way with unmistakable disdain. I face him, match his disdain and up him one to blatant dislike, hovering on I-don’t-care-what-you-think. But we both know it’s fake, I’ve gone too far and he gives me a mock smile, amused with my discomfort. The dick.

  “Introduce me to your new reporter friend,” he says to Max.

  Max looks us over and I get my act together, pull up my tattered big girl panties and look the professional southern belle that I’ve come to resemble, the sheen barely covering the whiskey drinking, snarling swearing hard-nosed sports reporter I was raised to be.

  “Meet Chloe Smith,” Max says, “a born-and-bred sports reporter who grew up old-school and has been around professional locker rooms longer than either of us.”

  I nod, approving of the intro. My cameraman is itching to turn his camera back on and I give him a subtle tilt of my head. Being the pro I’m coming to appreciate more every minute, he backs away before he raises his camera again. I don’t care if Tate knows or doesn’t know we’re back on the record. My cameraman is behind him, but Max sees the shift and stands straighter, putting his professional mask back on. The thing is, it looks a lot like his unguarded face: gracious, polished and wise. Note to self—keep that Max Devon in your back pocket for future reference potentially as a friend more than a foe.

  “That right?” Skepticism drips from Tate and his stupid dimples show. Two of them. Deep and, well, adorable.

  “It is,” I say. “Where do you come from?”

  “Midwest. Heart and soul of the country. But I’m sure you know that. You would have done your homework since you’re a pro and all.”

  I want to smack him, but I smile my southern belle smile, the one that would be accompanied by bless your heart if I got out of control. But I stand my ground. Nod as if I’m feeling respectful, a gracious person.

  “That must be where you got your hundred and fifty percent work ethic,” I say.

  He has the nerve to laugh like he means it. Max raises his brow. Maguire lowers the camera, the red light goes out. We’re off the record again. “Tell me about the recovery from your shoulder injury. Any residual effects?” I know full well there are.

  “No. I’m healthy. Ready to go.”

  “We should get going,” Max says, slapping Tate’s back and I’m reminded where the lines are drawn. He disarms the situation as if we need to be dragged to our corners. But I’m just getting started.

  “Where you going?” I ask. “I wouldn’t mind having a couple of beers.”

  “Another time,” Max says.

  Sliding a look at Tate, I check his reaction. Suspicion and . . . something else. Could be interest. Not respect. I’ll earn his respect—and everyone else’s—before I’m finished in Boston. Everyone told me this is a tough town to crack, filled with parochial connections and secret handshakes screening the successes. But I’m tough and I love a challenge.

  I need a big story. An exposé. No empty gossip, no meaningless twaddle about how much money a guy’s holding out for or which record a guy wants to break. I’m going for the jugular. I want to cover stories about the effect of football on the players’ real lives. The stories behind the drive, behind what makes the great ones great.

  That was the pitch that landed me the position over a dozen other people older than me, with more creds than me, some even better looking. There’s no way I got the job because of my dad or because of my smile and I know it’s in spite of my accent. Still a southern drawl to this day in tribute to my mom. Except when I revert to my locker room upbringing.

  Max and Tate head back into the tunnel as do several others, starting a tide of departures.

  “Let’s call it a day,” I say to Maguire.

  We walk back to the truck and I get in the driver’s seat as Maguire stows his camera in the back, then climbs to the passenger seat up front.

  “That was fun,” he says. “I got to hand it to you. You have balls.”

  “What makes you say that?” I put the truck in gear. I need to hear his impression of my so-called balls.

  “Inviting yourself out for drinks? First with Sean Patrick and then Tate Fontanna? Ain’t that asking for trouble?”

  “Which part?” I follow the long drive in a parade of vehicles to the stadium exit. I like that we’re in the city, or close enough to it, so it’s not far from the studio.

  “The part where you’re a reporter asking to have drinks with players.” He shrugs. “And the part where you’re a flirty young looker and these guys are players at more than football.”

  I laugh. “You make it sound dangerous.”

  “For them maybe,” he says, making me laugh not for the first time.

  “I like you, Maguire.” I pat his shoulder. “We’re going to work well together.” I mean it. He smiles and I realize I haven’t seen him smile until now.

  “Swell. I need a little excitement on my way out of this game.” He win
ks at me and I hope he’s exaggerating about being on his way out, but I’m not going to think about that now. Keeping my eyes on the road, I drive us back to the studio and park the truck in the underground garage in the studio building smack in the center of Boston.

  “Time to get to work on putting the show together.”

  “I’m heading home. Don’t underestimate your opponents,” he adds before he walks off to his car. He reminds me of my dad in that moment, giving me those parting words of wisdom, the kind I’d heard a million and one times all my life. The kind I’ll always take to heart.

  The newsroom is quiet. Everyone is out in the field or at home where they belong. With no office, I head for my file-littered desk. Slipping my shoes off automatically as soon as I hit the chair, I power up the computer and check the video file Maguire sent me. They need a couple of fifteen- to twenty-second clips, so I start editing.

  “How’d it go?” The unusually deep voice of my boss, Henry Most, almost scares me out of my chair.

  “Fucking A, Henry. Warn a girl when you’re skulking around an empty office, why don’t you?” He raises his brows. I add, “Pardon my French.”

  “That bad?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” I get back to work, scrolling through the footage frame by frame as he sits on the corner of my desk, squashing whatever was there under the papers—and I’m sure there was something. I don’t bother mentioning it to him. This is the newsroom, not Sunday church.

  “Did you get me something good or are we settling for more of the banal crap we’ve been getting lately?”

  “You mean did I accomplish what you hired me to do?” I hate that the answer is no. “Not yet, but I’m still warming up. Let’s just say I got some seeds in the ground and for tonight a clip or two less banal than the usual.”

  “But still banal?”

  I look up at him to see his smirk. “You don’t need to prove to me you’re a tough guy.”